


Spellbound

by jeynestheon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Angst, Animagus, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Jon and the Starks Are Not Related, Mates, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Romance, Slow Burn, Werewolves, Wizards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2019-10-15 10:41:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17527259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeynestheon/pseuds/jeynestheon
Summary: (It is not very ladylike to be so curious, Sansa knows—But Jon Snow makes her very curious.)





	1. foxglove

**Author's Note:**

> Okay.
> 
> This originally started out as a “Wow what about a hogwarts AU where Jon is a werewolf and Sansa becomes an animagus to keep him company on full moons” and somewhere along the way it also transformed into mate/soulmate angst, soooo....Do with that what you will.
> 
> Dedicated to Ana @alaynestoned on twitter. She came up with the idea and I only improved on it. Go follow her, I adore her with all my heart!
> 
> Enjoy!

Sansa cannot possibly pinpoint an exact moment when things start to change; it happens so slowly that she doesn’t realize until it is much too late.

 

It starts small. Miniature.

 

Dad is working more and more late nights at the ministry, and Mum is forced to do it all on her own. Aunt Lysa comes over to help a lot more often, feeds them lumpy porridge and dry sandwiches and apple juice and she shuts herself in the room with her sister, talking in hushed whispers. Robb and Arya are caught listening once, and from then on, the door is always charmed with a muffliato. Sansa realizes that she is glad.

 

(She’s not sure she wants to know.)

 

When Dad is home, Mum and him do not speak, or rather, he often tries and she dismisses him quietly, but firmly. He still eats dinner with them, still reads them bedtime stories, but instead of going to bed after, he heads outside, and sleeps in the barn. On the fourth night that he does this, Bran comes into her room and cries into her shirt. She has to bite her lip to keep herself from doing the same.

 

Summer does not feel like summer anymore, even with the heatwave. Perhaps because it is the end. The leaves are still green, but show the faintest hint of change, an occasional orange or brown leaf found. They don’t play in the sprinklers anymore. Their mother refuses to take them to Diagon Alley until it is closer to school time. All Robb can talk about is that, and Hogwarts, which he’d be attending in the fall. That is another thing—he seems so excited, that Sansa wonders if he’s gonna even miss any of them. 

 

Summer has ended, and—

 

Change has only just begun. 

 

***

Sansa learns how to adjust. 

 

She does not try to figure out what’s going on, lingering around doors like Robb and Arya, and she does not ask any questions, like Bran, who is not old enough to know that he shouldn’t. She keeps her head down, tries her best to lighten the load off of her mother’s shoulders by helping with baby Rickon, and she closes her eyes and ears to her Mum and Dad’s interactions. Even if she desperately wants to know what has made them this way.

 

Adjusting is not enough, because one night it gets bad.

 

Mum and Dad are in the kitchen, screaming at each other. They didn’t even bother casting a muffliato, didn’t have the time. Robb and Arya do not need to listen in at the door; they’re so loud, Sansa can hear them upstairs. They’re all in the bed, in Robb’s room. Bran leans into her shoulder, tears from his eyes sleeping through her shirt, and she just hugs him.

 

She wants to cry too, wants to lean on someone too, but Robb’s eyes are blank, lost in thought, too focused on making out the words only slightly obscured by the wall between them. Arya is curled up on her side, stiff, inconsolable. 

  
  


“I don’t like this, Ned!” Her mother says, raggedly, but just as fiercely. “I don’t like this at all.”

 

“It’s two weeks, Cat. Two weeks.” Her father emphasizes. His voice is not as hard as before, but weary. Tired. Like he’s begging her. “You know I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t an emergency. It’s a favor for Professor Arryn—”

 

“Professor Arryn.” Catelyn seethes, practically spitting. “I don’t see Professor Arryn putting his family in danger.”

 

Sansa has to double take. Robb looks over at her, as if to ask her if she had heard the same thing. She had never heard her mother or father speak of the headmaster of Hogwarts with anything but affection. Especially her father. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Professor Arryn. But this thing, this favor, it was something that Mum didn’t feel comfortable doing. Something—

 

Something that would put them in danger. 

 

“We are  _ not  _ in any danger.” Ned snaps. “He said we’re the only people he thought he could trust. Me, you, and Ben. Do you really want to let him down?”

 

“I don’t care if I’m letting him down!” Catelyn shouts back. “And neither should you! I can’t believe you’re gonna let him in the house! With our children—”

 

“He’s a child too!” He bursts out, and it makes Sansa jump in her place. The raw, unfiltered agony in his voice. The hurt. “He’s a boy, Catelyn. He’s Lyanna’s boy.” 

 

Lyanna.

 

Sansa has only heard that name a few times before.

 

At holiday parties when they’re telling stories about their days at Hogwarts. She’s seen it on the backs of the photographs kept in that shoe box outside in the barn closest to the woods. It always referred to a woman, a dark, curly haired gryffindor that was her father’s best friend. She died a while ago, before Sansa was born. She never got the chance to meet her.

 

She hadn’t even known that Lyanna had a son.

 

“Benjen’s already met him. Says he’s a good boy. A sweet boy.” Ned implores. “I swear it to you.”

 

There’s a moment of silence.

 

Strained. Cross. And full of more unsaid things. But Catelyn sighs, and that says it all. It’s a surrender, but a bleak one. A cold one. One that said  _ for now. _

 

“For their sake, I hope so.”

 

Rickon starts crying in his room, and her mother nutters a curse under her breath. Her footsteps start slapping against the stairs, and they all scatter quickly, as it was past bedtime. Bran practically slams the door on Arya’s back, gently. And Sansa pulls her along on tip toes back to their room, where they slip into the bed and pull the covers over their heads. 

 

It’s not until she hears Arya snoring loudly, and is left alone with her own thoughts that she realizes her mother’s words.  _ For their sake.  _ She was talking about them, obviously. But what did it mean? What was it about this boy that was ripping her family apart? Why was it changing everything?

 

Sansa squeezes her eyes shut, trying to erase the words from her memory. If she kept going like this, she’d only have more questions.

 

And what would happen if she didn’t like the answers?

 

_ I’m not meant to know.  _

 

***

 

(She was meant to know, though, as she finds out later on.)

 

(She really should have tried harder to.)

 

***

 

Sansa does find out, eventually, at dinner, a week later.

 

They’re sitting at the table, and Ned is still at the ministry, working late. Arya is toying around with her broccoli, trying to cut it into smaller pieces to make it look like she’s been eating it, Bran is stuffing his mouth full of mashed potatoes, and Robb is badgering their mother about their upcoming trip to Diagon Alley. Again.

 

“We will go up to London this weekend.” Catelyn cuts him off, trying to feed Rickon baby peas. He coos, and lets it dribble back down his chin. She sighs. “Just have to wait until Jon gets here.”

 

“Jon?” Robb frowns. “Who’s Jon?” 

 

But Sansa already knows who it is. From the way her mother’s face draws even tighter and the way she takes a deep breath before continuing, smoothing her face into a blank mask.

 

“Your Aunt Lyanna’s son.” Catelyn says stiffly, dabbing at Rickon’s chin with a napkin. “He’s coming to stay with us for the rest of the summer. He’ll be going to Hogwarts with you this year.”

 

That explained why it had been a favor coming from Professor Arryn. It didn’t explain why it was so top secret, why no one else could have known. Why this scares her mother so badly, why her father had to jump through hoop after hoop to reassure her. 

 

It didn’t make any sense.

 

But apparently, Sansa was alone in this train of thought.

 

“What?” Robb shrieks, sounding ecstatic. All of his friends from town were muggle boys he went to primary school with, unlike Sansa, who at least had Jeyne Poole, a muggle born her age. “You could have told me sooner!”

 

Catelyn makes a sound at the back of her throat. “I didn’t know until recently.” 

 

“How did you not know?” Arya asks, frowning. “Where’s he been this whole time?”

 

She tenses.

 

Not as imperceptibly as she would have liked. Her mother was horrible at hiding her emotions. Sansa finds herself wanting to know the answer, and why on earth her mother didn’t want to give one.

 

“Foster family.” Catelyn finally says, spearing a piece of broccoli with a little too much force. “He’s been traveling around with Jeor Mormont the last few years.”

 

“Jeor Mormont?” Robb says excitedly. “The dragon trainer?”

 

“Does he really train dragons?” Arya breaks in, just as intrigued. She fancied herself a future dragon trainer as well, and secretly, Uncle Benjen bought her a book on all types of dragons in the world.

 

“Do you think Jon has ever touched one?” Bran asks, over mouthfuls of food.

 

“That’s Mr. Mormont to you.” Catelyn corrects sharply. “And I don’t think that’s a very appropriate thing to discuss at the dinner table.”

 

(Sansa has a feeling her mother wouldn’t be comfortable discussing it anywhere.)

 

Bran shrugs. “I’ll just ask him when he gets here.”

 

The spoon Catelyn is holding clatters back into Rickon’s dish, as she points her finger at him sternly. “You will not.”

 

The table goes silent. 

 

Sansa has never seen this look on her mother’s face before, heard this tone in her voice before. She could be strict at times, but this was different. Her face became as stony as Ned’s and her tone even colder. Sansa would have thought she was mad af them, but she just knows—

 

She looks  _ scared.  _

 

“I want this made clear before the boy gets here– You will not go sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” Catelyn glares at each of them. “Understand?”

 

Bran looks to be on the verge of tears, and Robb rubs at his shoulder. He widens his eyes in confusion at Catelyn. “It’s a harmless question, Mum.”

 

Catelyn takes a moment to compose herself before speaking.

 

Her shoulders straighten, and the furrow in her brow smooths out, as she takes a deep breath. Then, she stands to take all of their plates, even Arya’s, completely ignoring the broccoli still present.

 

“Nothing about that boy is harmless. Nothing.”

 

That makes Sansa curious.

 

An eleven year old boy. What about him made her Mum so uneasy? What about him made her parents fight like that? Why was this such a big deal?

 

As if she senses her questions, Catelyn’s eyes snap towards hers, and Sansa flinches.

 

“I just need you guys to tell me that you understand.”

 

“I understand.” Sansa says quickly. The rest of her siblings follow suit, save for Rickon, who is gurgling in his high chair. Catelyn finally relaxes, and leans down to kiss Bran’s forehead. It’s an apology. 

 

“Good.”

 

Her mother walks back into the kitchen. Sansa wills the curiosity she feels to fade away.

 

It is not ladylike to be so curious.

 

***

The last few weeks of summer are fading, and every day is starting to bleed into the next, but the nights do not. 

 

Sansa dreams.

 

Not  _ dream  _ as in pink unicorns on clouds, and airplanes swerving around the moon. She always dreams like that. Everyone dreams like that. It’s rare she ever remembers it when she wakes up, though.

 

These dreams are different. 

 

They’re frightening, at first.

 

Frightening in the way that they are  _ vivid.  _ She can feel the crunch of grass and leaves underneath her feet, hard, gnarled forest ground. There’s goosebumps on her skin, from the bite of the cold, and the air tastes charred. Metallic. Like blood and rust, and her tears threaten to freeze on her cheeks, as another howl erupts in the distance. There’s something chasing her. Something  _ big.  _

 

She’s on the wrong side of the Weirwood tree.

 

She’s always running, and it’s never fast enough and she trips over the same tree branch. Every time. She’s crawling, begging for mercy, when it approaches her, jaws hinged, fur white, and eyes as red as blood and—

 

Sansa screams. 

 

Every night for the next week. The first time, her parents come rushing into shake her awake. The second time, she crawls into bed with them. The third time, Catelyn brews her some dreamless draught to drink before bed.

 

It doesn’t work. She wakes up, flailing, cheeks wet in the early hours of the morning. 

 

Sansa resolves to not fall asleep.

 

She drinks tea, and she stays up reading her horoscope on Witch Weekly. She reads Hogwarts: A History four times. She paints her fingers and toes, and fills up her brand new sketch pad, but always with drawings of the creature in her dreams.

 

_ A ghost wolf _ , she finds herself thinking as she runs her fingers on the surface of her drawing.  _ As big as mountains. _

 

***

“Ready?”

 

Sansa and her mother sit at a table in Lysa’s cottage, waiting with a twisted stomach. After she found out that Sansa had been staying up to stop dreaming, Catelyn had told Ned that she was taking Sansa to St. Mungo’s for a check up, but had gone to Lysa’s instead for Grandmother Minisa’s grimoire, and—

 

“Tea leaves?” Sansa says, frowning. “Daddy says tea leaves don’t work.”

 

Lysa rolls her eyes, pouring the cup she had sent in front of her full. “You’re father’s a thick headed fool.”

 

“Lysa.” Catelyn chastises abruptly, shooting her a look. 

 

“You know it’s true.” She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “His patronus would be more accurate as a bull than a wolf.”

 

Catelyn ignores that. She smiles down at Sansa, pushing her hair behind his ear. “Daddy isn’t… he isn’t  _ always  _ right. Tea leaves help us see things a lot more clearly. They can be very insightful. You do want to get better, don’t you?”

 

Sansa did. So badly. All she wanted to do was dream of nonsensical things again, like snowmen in front of the pyramids of Giza and fish with legs. She wanted the wolf to stop chasing her.

 

She wanted to stop living on the edge of her seat.

 

“Yes.” She says smally, ducking her head.

 

“Bottoms up then, dear.” Lysa says briskly, pushing the cup towards her. “What are you doing? Waiting for the grass to grow?”

 

Sansa bristles. 

 

(She really would have rather gone to Saint Mungo’s.

 

But she drinks. It tastes bitter, and minty. She’s swallowing so fast, she chokes a little. Sansa coughs and moves to drink the rest, but Aunt Lysa takes the cup from her hands, scowling. 

 

“Don’t go drowning yourself on my account.” Lysa drawls. “Your dolt father will never forgive me.” 

 

“Lysa.” Catelyn snaps again. 

 

“I’m teasing, I’m teasing!” 

 

But as she takes a look into Sansa’s tea cup, her smirk fades. Her face blanches. She squeezes her eyes shut, and opens them again.The result she gets is obviously the same, because her face only gets paler.

 

Her mother is just as wary. “What? Lysa, What do you see?”

 

Sansa has never seen her aunt speechless before, until now. Wordless, Lysa hands Catelyn the tea leaves, lips thinned.

 

All blood drains from her mother’s face, too, and Sansa’s heart won’t stop hammering in her chest because of it.

 

“The direwolf was once on the Stark family crest years ago.” Catelyn says, a little too highly. “It looks like a wolf too. It could mean— it doesn’t have to—”

 

“Maybe not.” Lysa says quietly. Dubiously. “But I’ve been doing this a long time, Cat, and that looks a lot like—”

 

“The Grim.” Sansa hears herself say.

 

Distantly. Numbly. She doesn’t realize she had walked over to look over her mum’s shoulder and at her tea leaves. It’s there, clear as day. The rough, jagged, shape of a black wolf in her cup. There’s another blob in the corner of the cup, something like a lumpy circle, or maybe a heart. But Sansa can’t find it in herself to investigate it more, all she can do is stare at the grim. 

 

She knows what it means.

 

An omen of death.  _ Her  _ death. Every time it was seen by someone, that person died within the next few days. But Ned always insisted they had died of shock of seeing the Grim rather than the actual grim itself.

 

“Have you seen it?” Catelyn grips the sides of her arms, shaking her gently. Her blue eyes are wide and glassy with unshed tears, and her voice trembles. “At home? In your dreams? Is that what’s scaring you?”

 

“No. I’ve never seen it.” Sansa promises, voice cracking. Did that mean she had more time left? Did that mean it had no begun to run out? “I swear.”

 

“Sansa, you said something chases you.” Lysa says, putting her hands on Catelyn’s shoulders to reign her in, pull her away from Sansa. Once she does that, she squats down in front of her and it’s the gentlest Sansa has ever seen her.

 

“What do you see in these dreams?”

 

“A wolf.” She answers quietly. “Big and white with red eyes. Like a ghost.”

 

Catelyn and Lysa freeze.

 

She doesn’t understand what it means.

 

Not until they send her upstairs and disappear into the kitchen together, under the pretenses of looking for a recipe in Grandmother Minisa’s spellbook. Surprisingly enough, they do not cast a muffliato. It’s too easy for her to hear everything, even while the water is running.

 

“The grim.” Lysa whispers. “It could be—”

 

“It’s  _ not. _ ” Catelyn nearly growls, and somewhere downstairs, a pot slams against the counter.

 

“It could be.” Lysa argues. “Cat. She dreams of a wolf hunting her down—”

 

“Dreams do not always come true.” Catelyn snaps.

 

“You sound just like your idiot husband.” Lysa sneers. “Where has your faith in your magic gone?”

 

“I’m supposed to have faith in magic? When it sentences my daughter to death?” Catelyn hisses back, voice quaking. “What good has my faith done for me?”

 

Sansa goes cold all over. 

 

Her siblings, what would she tell them? What if it happened before Robb came back from Hogwarts? What if this was the last time she would see him?

 

What would kill her?

 

“It warns you.” Lysa says, voice a little less hard. “It’s warning you that that thing coming to your house is nothing but trouble for you and your family.”

 

“Ned said—” Catelyn sniffles, and it breaks Sansa’s heart a little. “Ned said there’d be no danger. Professor Arryn said the same.”

 

Danger. There was that word again. Sansa feels something niggling at the back of her mind, but her lack of sleep prevents her from recalling the last time it had been brought up.

 

“Professor Arryn.” Lysa is nearly spitting with rage. “Everyone knows that old goat is only senile half of the time. Look at what he’s making you do. Look at what it could do to your family.”

 

Catelyn is silent. Sansa hears the wheels working in her mind. She knows that she believes the same. She had all but said the same the other night when she was fighting with Ned. But still, to Lysa she says:

 

“I trust Ned, Lysa. And I trust the headmaster. If… if they say there is nothing to worry about then I believe them.” 

 

Lysa lets out a loud combination of a snort and a sneer. It is sharp, and unforgiving. It makes Sansa jump a little, from where she was listening on the stairs.

 

“This love is going to kill you.” Lysa promises venomously. “And your daughter too.”

 

***

 

After the visit to Aunt Lysa’s house, Sansa sleeps for nearly 16 hours. 

 

It’s dreamless too, with the help from Grandma Minisa’s recipe for Dreamless Draught, much stronger than the original. It tastes like mud. She eats her dinner early, and her mother tucks her in, kissing her on the forehead.

 

“Don’t tell Daddy about today.” She murmurs, smoothing out the wrinkles of her blanket. “Okay?”

 

Daddy wouldn’t like it. Daddy never liked it when Aunt Lysa used her tea leaves in crystal balls. He called her a con artist, whatever that was. 

 

“Yes, mum.” 

 

“We’ll be right across the hall if you need us.” She says, and her face is the last thing Sansa sees before she gives into her heavy eyelids.

 

***

The next morning, Sansa emerges from the pitch of her mind confused.

 

Something isn’t right.

 

She feels it, deep in her bones, as she sits up, dizziness rushing to her head. She’s cold, so cold, which is concerning since they’re in the middle of a heat wave, but she’s hot too, all over. The hairs on the back of her neck and arms stand up, and her skin prickles, chafes, as something like ice slithers down her back. 

 

Something is horribly wrong.

 

_ A witch always knows _ , her mother always says.

 

Sansa stumbles to her feet, not even bothering to change out of her nightgown or put house slippers on, and she makes her way down the stairs on shaky legs, heaving for breath, only to hear raucous laughter coming from the kitchen that make her freeze in her tracks.

 

Uncle Benjen sits at the kitchen table across from her father and mother, clutching his chest and laughing heartily. She is so shocked, she has to take a step back. He came home every Christmas, but he always looked a little different every time she saw him. This time, his hair is long, and he has a new scar cutting through his eyebrow.

 

He is the one who sees her first. His face stretches into a wide grin, and he holds his arms out.

 

“My favorite red haired niece.” 

 

“I’m your only red haired niece.” She reminds him, but can’t help but smile all the same. The feeling of foreboding does not leave her, but she hugs uncle Benjen all the same, and tightly. She missed him. 

 

“What are you doing out of bed looking like that?” Catelyn asks, horrified. “We have company over.”

 

“I didn’t know.” Sansa says, but then another wave of dizziness sweeps over her, and she sways a little bit. Uncle Benjen catches her. 

 

“Woah, there.” He steadies her, gray blue eyes dark with concern. He puts a cool hand against her forehead. “She’s hot to the touch, Cat.” 

 

“Merlin.” Catelyn curses. She sets Rickon down in his high chair, and tugs Sansa over to sit down in the seat she had previously occupied. “Let me go get my spell book. Don’t move.”

 

She disappears around the corner.

 

“You are burning up.” Ned mutters, after pressing the back of his hand to her forehead. He frowns. “I told your mother not to give you that potion—”

 

“What potion?” Benjen inquires.

 

“A crackpot recipe of her mother’s.” Ned rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “For a stronger type of Dreamless Draught. She’s been having night terrors.”

 

“Dad.” Sansa complains, blushing fiercely. She didn’t want anyone else to know about them. She was almost 10, and much too old for nightmares. 

 

“I had a nightmare just last night.” Benjen says.

 

“Sure you did.” She rolls her eyes, but it hurts her head.

 

“I did.” Benjen insists. “I scared myself half to death, because I didn’t have my night light.”

 

“ _ You  _ have a nightlight?” Sansa questions disbelievingly, narrowing her eyes at him.

 

“You don’t?”

 

That summons another table shaking laugh from Ned, and Benjen joins in. Suddenly, the front door whooshes open, and Sansa hears it slam against the wall. There’s stomping, like somebody is rushing through the house. The prickling on her neck grows stronger. 

 

“No running in the house, you four!” Benjen calls out sternly, but he’s still smiling. 

 

_ Four? _

 

But Sansa and Rickon were sitting right there, and Rickon couldn’t even walk yet.

 

“Get in here!” Ned adds. He turns to Sansa, smiling. She has not seen him look so happy in awhile. “There’s someone I want you to meet, love.”

 

She opens her mouth to protest, fussing at her state of undress, but it is too late. They all come bounding in seconds later, Bran, Arya, Robb, who’s laughing and clearly in the middle of a conversation with—

 

Sansa’s stomach soars.

 

But then it plummets.

 

The hairs on the back of her neck and arms raise, and she’s suddenly cold. Horribly cold, from the tip of her nose to her toes, but then she’s hot, right in the center of her chest, and all she can hear is her heart pounding away in her ears and a distant feeling of something, something that had been missing from her, something that she hadn’t even known to be missing, slide back into place. It’s like a key, sliding into the right lock, and that is how indescribably familiar this complete stranger feels to her right now. 

 

But there’s something else.

 

Something crackling, like static. Like lightning. Inside of her and between them. Some type of magic, something bizarrely unfamiliar that Sansa had never encountered in her lessons with her mum or reading any of her books, and the way it just settles around her to a dull vibration, a hum, like it doesn’t intend to go anywhere — it scares her.

 

And so does the way he looks at her right now.

 

At first it was something much like shock, maybe even wonder, or fear, and his lips were parted and his fists kept clenching and unclenching at his sides, but then it’s gone. Now, he looks at her like she is the last person he wants to see, and from the way he’s grinding his teeth Sansa would have thought his jaw was wired shut. There is nothing but pure annoyance, and displeasure, and loathing in those eyes, those deep gray eyes, and she cannot figure out what she did in the span of a minute to earn any of those emotions from him.

 

“Sans, you’re awake.” Robb says, cheerfully. “This is Jon. Aunt Lyanna’s son. Mum was telling us about him, remember?”

 

She did remember, now, even if she had almost forgot. Her nightmares had kept her more than occupied. It explained why he looked so familiar, with his dark curls and his gray eyes. But it doesn’t explain anything else. It doesn’t explain… this feeling. 

 

To make matters worse, Robb pulls him by the sleeve, so he’s standing closer to her. 

 

This Jon.

 

All she feels is that static, and the sound of her blood roaring in her ears. It worsens as he gets closer. The back of her neck prickles.

 

Jon squirms.

 

(He can feel it too.)

 

“This is my little sister, Sansa.” Robb introduces, and then jokes with a lopsided smile. “She doesn’t usually look as much of a mess. I promise.”

 

Sansa blushes, and thinks to hit him, but she knows it wouldn’t be appropriate. She forces a smile onto her face, and sticks out her hand, just as her mother would have expected her to do if she were watching right now. She forces her voice not to tremble, resists the urge to cave under the crushing weight of the magic that surrounded them. “Nice to meet you.”

 

For a second, she doesn’t think he’s gonna take it.

He certainly doesn’t look like he wants to. 

 

Maybe it was this electricity between them, or maybe it was the fact that she had looked like such a mess before, or maybe it had to do with anything else she could have did to make him dislike her so much. Jon just stares at it, for a little under thirty seconds (Sansa knows because she plans on giving it 45 before she just gives up and walks to her room in shame) but Robb nudges him not so subtly, and Jon shuts his eyes briefly, like he’s praying, before he takes her hand. 

 

Her heart slows down.

 

Not dramatically, or alarmingly, but it just returns to its regular pace, a steady thump thump. Her skin cools, and it doesn’t feel so itchy anymore. But the vibrating stays, subsiding to a dull hum. And there’s that feeling again, the feeling of things  _ sliding  _ into their perfect place. It’s clarity. 

 

She doesn’t really want to let go.

 

Jon does not feel the same.

 

Seconds later, he snatches his hand back and shoves it into the pocket of his jeans, face closed off, empty. But Sansa sees it in his eyes that he felt it. She knows--

 

“Sansa.” 

 

The voice cracks like a whip. Sansa straightens her shoulders, and finds her mother at the door of the kitchen, face white and lips strained with a false smile. Her hand is full of potion ingredients. 

 

“Come upstairs, please.” She says, a bit calmer. Nicer. “We need to do something about that fever.” 

 

She doesn’t need to, not anymore, whatever Jon had done had fixed it. But Sansa doesn’t know how to explain that to her mom. She also doesn’t know what to think about the way he ducks his head in shame the minute she walks in the room. 

 

_ (There’s nothing harmless about that boy.) _

 

Sansa doesn’t dare take one more look at Jon, as she takes her mother’s hand.

 

***

“Leave that boy alone.” 

 

Sansa startles from her thoughts to find Catelyn still lingering at the door of her room. She’s still holding the glass that she had made Sansa drink the fever reducing potion from. Her knuckles are white. Her voice is barely above a whisper.

 

Sansa is too busy massaging the inside of her palm, trying to imitate the feeling of his hand in hers to fully grasp the meaning of her words. The vibration was back, a little stronger, but not as powerful as it had been before they touched. So is that static. “What?”

 

“I want you to leave that boy alone.” Catelyn glares at her, eyes hard. “Do you understand?”

 

_ Why? _

 

It’s all Sansa wants to say. All she desperately wants to know. Why was she so scared of him? It must have been his magic. Could she feel it like she did?

 

But Sansa bites her tongue. She knows her questions would not be welcome. A simple “Yes.” Leaves her mouth. It satisfies her mother enough, and she leaves.

 

(It is not very ladylike to be so curious, Sansa knows —

 

But Jon Snow makes her  _ very _ curious.)

  
  
  
  



	2. bitterroot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At first, Sansa does what she always does when she’s faced with a problem. 
> 
>  
> 
> She turns to books.

At first, Sansa does what she always does when she’s faced with a problem. 

 

She turns to books.

 

When everyone is sleeping, of course. It’s not like she could take them out right in front of her mother, who surely want to know why she was suddenly so interested in Weird Wizarding Dilemmas and their Solutions, or Important Modern Magical Discoveries. While it wasn’t exactly unusual for Sansa to be poking around the library, she didn’t want to have to risk it. 

 

It doesn’t really matter, anyway, because she doesn’t find anything. Nothing about the magic that always seemed to come off of Jon in waves, or how she seemed to be drawn to that magic. But Catelyn often said that Sansa was more sensitive to magic than everyone else. It was something that ran in the Tully’s, apparently, because her Aunt Lysa was the same way. That explained why she felt Jon’s magic while no one else did, and so strongly. Both books just led her to the conclusion that Jon was a very powerful wizard.

 

Although, the more Sansa watched him, the more she was convinced that wasn’t the case. He seemed strangely ordinary for a wizard. But she hadn’t really seen him do magic, yet, either, and probably wouldn’t until she got to Hogwarts herself.

 

Foolishly, for a second, Sansa had wondered if he was part veela on his father’s side, maybe. It would make sense, as to why her mother didn’t want him in the house, veelas were very dangerous. But nobody seemed drawn to Jon besides her, and Sansa also knew that Veelas were only female. So that was just out of the question entirely. 

 

It wasn’t like she could ask him, either. Jon avoided her at every turn. He sat the furthest away from her at the dinner table, and when she asked him to pass her something, does his best not to touch her and only grunts when she thanks him. He never directly says her name, only refers to her as “she.” When he does talk to her, he never looks at her in the face, but when she passes from room to room, she feels him watching her. Once, she had felt bold enough to catch him in the act, and he had the audacity to glare at her, as if she had been in the wrong.

 

Jon Snow does not like her.

 

Sansa doesn’t need any books to figure that out.

 

But other than that, he settles in at the house very nicely. Him and Robb are already best friends, and Arya adores him, and pesters him for stories of his travels when Catelyn and Ned aren’t around. He volunteers everything he knows about dragons up to Bran immediately (yes, he’s touched one, no, he’s never ridden one) and even Rickon takes to him, very much enjoying pulling at his curls. That makes Jon smile. They all make Jon smile.

 

Except for her. 

 

It’s very disconcerting.

 

Sansa’s never met a person who didn’t like her. Everyone loved her, and that was just a fact. She tried her best to be polite and gracious to everyone she had ever met, but somehow, her and Jon had just gotten off on the wrong foot. She tries to right this, brings them cookies that Catelyn made, says good morning to him, let him have the last sausage, but it’s never enough. He always just does that stupid grunt thing, and averts his eyes.

 

She can’t even hang out with her siblings anymore, because they’re always around Jon, having what appears to be the time of their bloody lives. Sansa doesn’t want to embarrass herself any further, so she just stays inside with her books, or sticks to playing with Rickon.

 

That Friday marks a week since Jon first arrived at the Stark house, and it is another day where Sansa finds herself without any company. With permission from her father, she’s walking to the mailbox to see if she had gotten anything from Jeyne. She was gonna be back next weekend, thankfully, and Sansa couldn’t wait.

 

"Where are you off to?”

 

She turns to find Robb, rolling a football underneath the heel of his foot. He kicks it toward her, and she sidesteps it. It makes him laugh, like he expected it.

 

“Mailbox.” She picks the ball up with her hands, and rolls it back towards him. He catches it back between his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

 

“That can wait.” Robb says, gesturing to the woods. “Come play hide and seek with us! Arya’s it this time.”

 

Sansa chews on her lower lip, considering, but as if on cue, Jon emerges from the woods with Bran’s arms looped around his neck and Arya at his side, laughing at something she must have said. But when he sees her face, his smile fades, and his face just goes blank. She blushes, averting her eyes.

 

“Maybe later.” She shrugs. “I really wanna see if my letter got here.”

 

"You haven't hung out with us in ages!” Robb complains, crossing his arms over his chest.  “It feels like you’re nose is always stuck in some book.”

 

And it’s not like she can tell him why she doesn’t exactly feel comfortable with this, because the reason why she’s been so absent is standing right there, but she still feels guilty. She really does miss him, and in less than a week, he’d be at Hogwarts and she wouldn’t see him until Christmas.

 

(But the last thing she wanted to do was spoil anything.)

 

Sansa plays it off with a shrug. “I don’t know….”

 

That underlying vibration that had the good grace to lay dormant rises up at full force, and she looks up to see Jon, staring at her, and not even bothering to hide it. She can’t read what it means.

 

“Cmon, Sans,” Bran says, sliding off of his back. He rushes over to her, pulling on her arm. “It’ll be fun!”

 

It’s hard to say no to him, with his big blue eyes, and his smile with gaps from his two front teeth, and it’s hard to say no to Robb, too, because all she wants is to spend time with him. So she checks to make sure that Arya and Jon are still deep in conversation when she asks them. 

 

 "Are you sure it'd be okay?”

 

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

 

Sansa nearly jolts at hearing Jon’s voice, and even more, at hearing Jon’s voice directed towards her. Three words. Five syllables. The most she had gotten out of his entire visit. But it’s different than all the other ones, not really without the same intentional indifference, and if she didn’t know better—

 

She would think he was trying. 

 

She can’t think of anything to say that, and she’s almost too grateful for Robb interrupting with a whoop, pumping his fist. Jon looks away first, and that blank mask is back and she feels more lost than before. 

 

“Right.” Robb begins. “So the rules are—”

 

"It’s hide and seek!" Arya interrupts impatiently, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “We already _know_ the rules.”

 

Robb protests, “ _Some_ of us have a tendency to cheat–”

 

“It was on accident!” Bran cries defensively. It’s an effort that Sansa manages to stifle her laugh.

 

“I’m gonna start counting now.” Arya proclaims bossily, turning to face the thick tree trunk that would apparently serve as their base.

 

Robb glares at her. “That’s not how it—”

 

Arya slaps her hands over her eyes, turning towards a tree, shrieking: "ONE! TWO!"

 

Robb opens his mouth to object again, but Bran punches him in the stomach, pointing to the woods, and immediately, they all scatter. Sansa starts running through the woods and she feels light, all in her stomach and her toes. She claps a hand over her mouth to keep herself from giggling. Leaves are hitting her cheeks and twigs are snagging at the cotton of her skirt, and Arya’s voice counting is starting to get smaller. She’s heading for her favorite hiding place, one of the many oaks near the clearing where the weirwood tree is, and knows the way towards it like the back of her hand. 

 

Sansa isn’t as good at hiding as Arya is, no one would ever be as good at hiding as Arya is, and she suspects her siblings already know where to find her, but she always switches it up every time. A different oak, a different angle on the clearing. But she never goes towards the ones across the way, where the real forest waited with creatures as dangerous as the ones in Uncle Benjen’s bestiary. The weirwood was staunch with protective charms that luckily kept them out. Not for the first time though, she wonders what could be inside. 

 

Sansa tiptoes hurriedly across the uneven ground. She can hear Arya’s counting starting to speed up; she always gets impatient before getting to 100. She’s so focused on straining her ears to keep track of her count, she only blames the hair raising on the back of her neck and arms to the proximity of the Wolfswood. But the swoop of her stomach makes her doubletake, and her foot trips over a thick root snagged in the ground and a deceptively hard looking rock, and—

 

She doesn’t fall.

 

A hand comes up to wrap around her elbow, while another grabs at the back of her shirt firmly, keeping her in place. Her breath hitches, and she couldn’t release it she tried, because she finally understands where the goosebumps on her arms came from, and why her skin felt like it was vibrating again.

 

Sansa doesn’t have to look to know Jon is standing behind her.

 

There’s a brief moment, about three seconds long, probably, where they just stand there, unmoving. There’s an exhale, a heavy, relieved one that stirs her hair a little, and then she’s being pulled back gently on steady feet. His hand on her elbow disappears, and the grip he had on the back of her shirt is replaced by him fidgeting to return the fabric to its former, iron pressed glory. When she turns to face him, reluctantly, _bracingly_ , he’s frowning down at her disapprovingly, and the tips of his ears are red.

 

"You should be watching your step."

 

Sansa knows her face is on fire, and her mouth isn’t quite working like it should be, but nothing ever seems to work right when he’s around. "Oh...Sorry."

 

His frown lessens, just a little. But he still looks exasperated. It could have been concern but it comes out as annoyance. "You could have hurt yourself."

 

“Right.” Her mouth falls open, but she shuts it immediately, picturing how stupid she looks. She can’t figure out why that matters to him. “Sorry.”

 

Jon huffs, as if she still doesn’t get it. 

 

"Don't apologize to me.” He says flatly, and his frown has turned into something like a scowl. “It's not my nose that would have been broken."

 

She blinks.

 

Sansa has never been more lost in a conversation in her life. 

 

"Suppose I'll find somewhere else to hide." Jon mutters, before she can think of a response. He turns, making his way across the clearing, and back into the trees.

 

Sansa can only sigh. 

 

It felt like every corner she turned with him led up to a dead end.

 

***

 

Arya does find her, in the end.

 

She’s the one she targets first, as always, and it works. After failing to catch Bran, and Robb slipping from her grasp, she uses Sansa as a failsafe, and tackles her as she’s trying to escape. Sansa screeches as they both fall to the ground, while Arya just laughs victoriously, yelling, “Sansa’s it, Sansa’s it!”

 

“Get _off_ of me you little beast!” Sansa shrieks. She could feel the damp grass staining her shirt. Her hand is bent awkwardly under her stomach, twinging with pain.

 

Arya just laughs, digging her elbows into her shoulder blades, just for fun. Sansa is about to toss her off her back, when she hears her mother’s voice, magically amplified through the forest, urging them to come in. 

 

“LUNCH TIME!”

 

Arya scrambles off of her, bounding for the Forest, and leaving Sansa groaning in the grass. She stumbles to her feet, wiping at her shirt only to make everything smudge worse. By the time she stomps her way out of the woods, Robb is at the edge, talking to Bran and Jon. The moment they see her, Robb’s face breaks into a wide grin, Bran laughs, and even Jon’s lips twitch. 

 

The first time she gets him to look at her with something other than annoyance and it’s at her expense. 

 

Her cheeks burn and all she wants to do is curl up and die.

 

Robb steps forward to brush the grass out of her hair with a choked laugh. “Guess this means you’re it, then.”

 

Sansa scowls, batting his hand away, and it only makes Robb laugh harder. 

 

“Best get cleaned up before Mum sees,” Bran sings, dancing around. There are grass stains on his clothes too, of course, but Bran can get away with it because he’s younger, and not supposed to be the perfect lady. He turns to Robb. “Race ya?”

 

“Done.” Robb replies, and dashes off. Bran hollers in protest, and scurries off after him on short legs, laughing. Sansa is left alone to lag behind them, fussing at her messy clothes. 

 

Alone with Jon. 

 

She’d _kill_ to know how to apparate right now. 

 

They trudge along in silence. Sansa stares resolutely ahead, chin held high. She tries to stay focused on bracing herself for her mother’s reaction to her clothes, rather than the feeling of Jon walking in step beside her, or the knowledge that she looked a right mess. She knows what awaits her; a stern frown, a disapproving lecture about wrestling around in her nice muggle clothes. But hopefully, while she wasn’t looking, Sansa could sneak some burning bitteroot balm for her wrist—

 

"You should go see your Mum for that." 

 

Sansa’s head jerks towards him so fast that it nearly hurts her neck. He’s _talking_ to her. Again. And once again, she doesn’t understand why. “What?”

 

"Your wrist.” Jon elaborates, tossing a stray curl that had fallen into his eyes with a practiced nod of his head. The movement should _not_ be as interesting to her as it is. “It's hurting you. You should go see your mum about it."

 

She frowns at him. "How did you know about my wrist?"

 

It’s not like she means for it to come out as suspiciously as it does, but it happens anyway. She hadn’t even been holding her wrist. She had actually been trying to _hide_ it.

 

“I saw you fall in the forest. You must have bruised it trying to catch yourself before I did.”

 

(I didn’t.)

 

How powerful is he, to be able to sense peoples aches and bruises this young? Judging from whatever he rolled off in waves from him all the time, very. It should scare her, just like it scared her mother, but it only made her more curious. More eager to know more.

 

“I didn’t.” She insists quietly. “You know I didn’t.”

 

Jon averts his eyes, lips pressed into a thin line. He isn’t a very good liar. He turns to look at her, chin downturned defiantly.     “Do you always ask this many questions?”

 

“It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.”

 

“It was annoying.”

 

Sansa blushes and irritation makes her bristle. Without even thinking, she reaches out, catching his elbow to stop him, a few choice impolite words on the tip of her tongue.

 

She never gets them out.

 

His skin is soft, and it hums pleasantly against her own. It feels so nice that it hurts to pull away, but she does. Only to reach for his hand, taking it in hers, without thinking,

 

Jon is still.

 

But she feels it, that swipe of a thumb on her knuckles, on the back of her hand, squeezing. He doesn’t look at her, just at their joined hands. Like he doesn’t want her to let him go.

 

Sansa really doesn’t want to. 

 

“I feel like…” she pauses, biting her lip. She’s not quite sure how to say it. Touching him makes every thought in her brain scramble. “I feel like you’re familiar. To me. I feel—“

 

It’s still stuck on her throat, not quite coming out, so she just wraps both hands around his, bringing it in between them, and looking up. Does he feel it? Does he understand? 

 

Sansa knows he does.

 

From the way he closes his eyes, and takes a shuddering breath, from the way his fingers are right over hers, and from the way he looks down at their hands, in awe.

 

In horror.

 

Jon pulls away, shoving his hand in his pocket.

 

“No.” He says coldly. Briskly. And then he’s gone, stomping off, like she had just broken his broomstick. Sansa is left alone, once again, hurt and more curious than ever.

 

***

The next day, early in the morning, Jon ventures out of the house. Sansa knows this because she hadn’t slept one wink.

 

From her window, she watches him walk into the forest, and come out 10 minutes later, hair a little tousled. Exploring, it seems like. She wonders if he’s about to come neck in when he enters the shed, but not before unlocking it.

 

Nobody was allowed in the shed. So why was he?

 

Before Sansa can rethink it, she slides her boots on and goes after him.

 

She should quit while she’s ahead, of course, but nosing into Jon’s business was better than worrying about the grim and her impending death. She felt like a giant clock hung over her head and every tick echoed in her head. She just wanted to take her mind off of it for awhile.

 

The shed door is still ajar. Sansa makes her way inside.

 

It’s more like a barn, than a shed. Entirely way too spacious. The last time she had been here, it had served as a workshop area for her mother so that she could paint, but now the only remnants of that past were the splatters on the floor. The room was entirely empty, save for a long silver chain on the floor. No paintings, no brushes, no couches—

 

No Jon.

 

“Looking for someone?”

 

Sansa squeaks, jumping. Jon is standing right behind her, looking as grave as he always did when they interacted.

 

“Jon!” She exclaims, feigning an easy laugh. “You scared me.”

 

Jon doesn’t seem to care. He just stares at her blankly: probably waiting for an explanation as to why she was here. Sansa rummages for excuses in her mind.

 

“I was just….looking for my easel—”

 

“You’re lying.”

 

She was, but he didn’t have to say it. And certainly like that. It’s not hard pretending to be offended. “Excuse me?”

 

“Don’t lie to me.” Jon says. For the first time, he actually looks amused. Why is it when he’s amused it’s always at her expense? “I can tell when you do.”

 

“I’m not lying—”

 

“Another lie. Your mother won’t be pleased about that.” Jon cuts her off. He’s actually smirking now. The nerve of him. “Does she know you like to stalk people, as well?”

 

Sansa‘s face feels like it’s on fire. “I’m not stalking you.”

 

“You were watching me from your bedroom window, you followed me outside,” Jon ticks them all off on his fingers with a raised eyebrow. “Is that not stalking?”

 

“I have _not_.” Sansa lies again, stamping her foot. How did he even know? She had been so careful. 

 

“Look,” He almost looks sympathetic for a moment, as he steps closer to her. She cannot help but take a step back. That surge of power is so overwhelming she feels fainter the closer he gets. 

 

He notices this, and Sansa sees a flash of emotion in his eyes. Hurt? It’s gone before she can even begin to discern it. When he speaks again, his voice is as cold and impersonal as ever, even if the words he speaks make her feel anything but. 

 

“Crushes tend to make people do crazy things–”

 

Sansa forces out a haughty laugh. She wonders if it sounds as false as it feels. “Like I’d _ever_ have a crush on you.”

 

“This would all certainly be easier if that were true.” He sighs, shaking his head. Like he pities her. The foolish little girl that was inexplicably fascinated with him.

 

Sansa feels her chest rising and falling rapidly. It hurts. Like something has clawed its way through. The cord of power in her stomach doesn’t feel so warm anymore. So comforting. She feels tears burn in her eyes. “I _hate_ you.”

 

She expects him to point out that that too, is a lie, because it is, no matter how much she wished it wasn’t. But instead, Jon’s jaw clenches, and he nods, almost _approvingly._ “You should.” And then, more to himself, he says, “You will.”

 

Sansa is suddenly very tired of Jon and his cryptic messages. Of all the mystery that had come to the house since his arrival. So she wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand, and turns to leave.

 

But he catches her wrist.

 

Unlike his words, his hands are warm. One encircles her wrist completely, and he uses the other to cup her elbow gently. It’s a contradiction to everything he’s said to her since they met, every cold look he’s given her. 

 

But this time, his eyes—they’re pleading. And his words are the same.

 

“Don’t come back here.” 

 

 _Why?_ Sansa wants to ask, but she doesn’t say it. She’s not sure she wants to know the answer. 

 

“Understand?” He says lowly.

 

She nods.

 

Jon lets go.

 

Sansa turns, and runs back to the house.

 

***

 

“Where’s Jon?”

 

It’s Arya who asks the question that is floating around Sansa’s head at breakfast the next morning. His seat is empty. The cord in her stomach yanks in a way that’s almost painful. Her head is pounding, and her bones ache. 

 

“In bed.”  Robb, who doesn’t look the least bit bothered by it, tells her. He just continues stuffing his face. He’s always stuffing his face.

 

“He’s usually up before the rest of us.” Arya frowns, stabbing at a sausage.  “He promised to play quidditch with me today.”

 

“I’m sure he wants to, but he’s ill.” Catelyn says shortly. Instead of eating with the rest of them, she’s at her cauldron, which rests on the island, brewing a potion. Her spellbook is out. But she keeps opening it, and closing it back so Sansa can’t make out the recipe.

 

“Ill?” Bran repeats through mouthfuls of pancake. 

 

“Some kind of stomach virus. He’s going to be bedridden for a few days.” Catelyn informs them.

 

Is that why Sansa’s stomach hurts? Is that why everything feels a million times worse today?

 

“Is he gonna be able to go to Hogwarts?” Arya asks worriedly, at the same time Bran swallows his food and asks, “Is he gonna be okay?”

 

“Of course.” Robb reassures them with an easy grin. He ruffles Arya’s hair, and steals a piece of toast from Rickon’s plate. “It’s just a bug. Uncle Benjen said he’s really sensitive to the seasons, remember? It happens all the time, apparently, and he always turns out fine.”

 

Sensitive to the seasons? What does that even mean? Did that have something to do with how powerful he was? Could his body just not handle it sometimes?

 

“Okay.” Arya says, but she still looks a bit put out. 

 

“I’ll practice with you as soon as we’re finished.” Robb offers, and she’s back to beaming again. She starts scarfing down her food in an attempt to get to their game faster. 

 

Sansa pushes her plate towards Robb, who accepts it greedily. She’s suddenly not that hungry anymore. She walks into the kitchen. Her mother is finishing up her secret potion. Sansa summons the courage to ask what it is.

 

“Medicine.” Catelyn replies distractedly, stirring her ladle. She seems very focused. “For Jon.”

 

“I can take it up to him.” Sansa offers. “If you want.”

 

Maybe being near him would ease her discomfort some. It had worked before. And she really wants to see if he’s okay, besides. Because for some reason, she feels like he’s anything but.

 

And that frightens her.

 

She had tried her best to be nonchalant about the offer, but her best must have not been enough, because her mother looks at her sharply, eyes suspicious.

 

“I think I can manage, thank you.”

 

There was no point in tip toeing around the subject anymore. Her mother knew she was curious. So Sansa gets on her tiptoes to peek at the concoction in the cauldron. She takes a sniff, and frowns. “Doesn’t smell like pepper up potion.”

 

“I never said it was.” Catelyn says coolly, not so subtly scooting the cauldron from out of her reach.

 

“Then what is it?”

 

“None of your business.” Her mother snaps, slamming the ladle down to glare at her. She pushes on her shoulders until she’s out of the kitchen. “Off with you.”

 

Sansa frowns, but makes her way upstairs. On her way, she passes Jon’s room, and she stops. She doesn’t dare open the door, but Merlin, does she want to.

 

(What is she hiding from me?)

 

(And what does it have to do with Jon being ill?)

 

***

 

She’s half asleep in bed that night when she hears it.

 

_Sansa._

 

Her name being hissed in her ear, like the culprit was right beside her. But they weren’t. When Sansa jolts up awake, she’s alone in the dark, but the voice is only getting louder.

 

_Sansa._

 

She knows that voice. It’s familiar. It makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. It makes her skin thrum, and her head light. _Sansa._ Her chest aches, like someone had clawed right through her chest and taken her heart. But the more Sansa slides out of bed, the more the pain subsides, until she’s standing up, steps away from her door. Arya is still sound asleep across from her. 

 

 _I need you, Sansa._ Her mind is hazy, and blank. All except for him, whispering in her ear, begging, pleading. He _needs_ her. He’s _waiting_ for her. Sansa doesn’t even need to open the door manually, it swings ajar gently, halting before it hits the wall. As soon as she’s in the hallway, the door closes again.

 

Sansa knows exactly what steps to take, even though she had never thought of it before. She ignores the creakiest floorboards and the loudest stairs. She doesn’t know why, just knows that she had to, if she was gonna get to him.

 

She _had_ to get to him.

 

Sansa doesn’t even register her mother in the parlor, snoring gently on the couch, wand clutched to her chest. She just keeps tiptoeing, soundlessly, towards the kitchen. The backdoor there swings open soundlessly as well, and closes behind her as soon as she’s outside. Her feet are bare. The grass is damp underneath her feet. The cold ripples through her pajamas.

 

Still, she keeps walking. And as she does, her chest doesn’t feel as tight. Her heart is back, and it’s beating wildly in her ears, and all her breaths sound vaguely rattled, and eager, and she has no idea where she’s going, until she sees the side of the shed, aglow with light from the window.

 

It opens easily at her touch. Sansa clambers inside.

 

That is when the whispering in her ear stops. When she falls to the ground, on her hands and knees. The fog in her head starts to dissipate. What is she doing here? Outside in the middle of the night? Barefoot, in her pajamas? Back in the _shed,_ of all places—

 

And then she sees it.

 

Or more accurately—him.

 

Jon is on the floor, on his hands and knees, shirtless. He’s chained to the wall behind him; shackles on his hands, and feet, even his _neck._ He’s panting, and sweating, looking close to tears, and somehow, Sansa just knows he’s in the worst pain imaginable.

 

“Jon?” She whispers.

 

His back stiffens, fists clenched, but then he looks up at her. His dark curls are wild, and damp with sweat. His eyes are black, and wide, and for some reason, unbelievably desperate.

 

“No.” Jon groans. “No, no. _Please_ , no.”

 

Sansa feels her heart breaking.

 

 _What’s going on?_ She wants to ask. _What are you doing here?_ But those questions could wait. He’s in pain. She gets down on her hands and knees so that she’s eye level with him. “You’re hurting.”

 

“You have to—” Jon breaks off to gasp in pain, stomach slamming to the ground, but Sansa catches him. “Sansa, _please_ you have to—”

 

Sansa. It’s the first time he’s ever said her name aloud. He says it like a prayer. Like it’s something holy. She brushes the hair out of his face. “What? Tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix—

 

“You can’t.” He snarls, snatching up her hand. She flinches, and Jon makes a pained sound. It sounds like a whine. He releases her, and scrambles toward the wall. “Go. _Please._ Just go.”

 

“I’m not leaving you.” She says, voice wavering. Tears are burning in her eyes. “Please—”

 

“You have to.” Jon begs. 

 

“No.” Sansa says as firmly as she can. She reaches for him, and it’s his turn to flinch. Still, she does not let go as she tries to pry open the shackles on his arms. She had to get him out. She had to take him to her parents—

 

“LEAVE.” Jon roars. He shoves her back so hard she clears a foot, and lands on her elbow. Hard. Sansa cries out in pain, and his eyes widen. He moves to crawl towards her, but shaken, she scoots even further out of his reach. 

 

“I can’t—” Jon begins, but he’s interrupted by a bloodcurdling howl from his own mouth. Something snaps, and his back caves in, as if his spine is breaking itself. 

 

“Jon!” Sansa cries out, forgetting her early fear, and goes to reach for him. But before she can, there’s another crack, and his skin is rippling across his body, like something was fighting to break out. Jon throws his head back and screams.

 

There are _fangs_ in his mouth. 

 

Sansa gasps, and scoots back even further. 

 

Where skin once was, fur is sprouting, all over his body. As white as snow. A hunch had appeared in his back as his spine was breaking, but the more fur that appeared, the more it straightened out again. His hands and feet turned into paws accompanied by long, sharp talons, and his eyes were now big and the color of fresh blood.

 

_(A ghost wolf as big as mountains.)_

 

Jon, the Wolf, looks at her. The shackles on his hands and feet are gone. Only the one on his neck remains. He bares his teeth with a menacing growl. 

 

Sansa _screams._

 

She sprints for the door, trying to open it, but it was locked. Bewitched shut. She lets out a sob, banging on the door, as she hears the chains drag behind her. 

 

He’s coming closer.

 

This is how she’s going to die.

 

That’s what her mother and aunt were talking about. The wolf. They knew it was Jon. They knew Jon would be the one to kill her. So did she, in a way. That’s why she kept dreaming about it. Had she predicted her own death weeks before Jon’s arrival?

 

And then the door opens.

 

The cold washes over her, and Sansa sees her father, face chalk white and gray eyes wide. With a firm hand on her arm, he yanks her out of the room, just as she feels a claw lunge at her pant leg. Ned shouts out a spell, and the door slams shut behind her. 

 

Sansa’s knees are so weak, she nearly falls to the ground.

 

Ned keeps her upright, with his hands on his forearms. He’s shaking her, _shouting_ out her. But Sansa can’t hear any of it. All she can hear is a firm ringing in her ears, and that growl echoing inside of her head.

 

She bursts into tears.

 

***

 

Sansa doesn’t remember much, after that.

 

She remembers her father apparating her back into her room, helping her change her pajamas. She remembers him speaking to her, gently, and soothingly, as he feeds her a cup of dreamless draught. But she doesn’t remember all of it, just bits and pieces.

 

What were you doing there?

 

What were you thinking?

 

Don’t tell your mother.

 

It’s only when he’s tucking her in, and pecking her on the cheek when she finds her voice again. She’s slipping into sleep, but she still croaks out, “He’s…he’s…” “

 

“He’s Jon.” Her father finishes firmly, smoothing a hand over her hair. “That’s all, love.”

 

Sansa drifts off to sleep.

 

She does not dream. 

 

***

 

The next time Sansa wakes, it’s at dawn, and the memory of what happened last night hits her like a ton of bricks. 

 

Had it all been real?

 

As if to check, she gets up from her bed, peeks out of her window. The shed is dark now. Empty, and desolate. 

 

Her father is walking out of it with Jon, a hand on his shoulder. 

 

He does not look any different than he had for as long as she had known him. Just exhausted—dark circles rested under his eyes—and ashamed, his shoulders are hunched over like he wants to curl into himself. Ned rubs his back, like he did with Sansa last night in an effort to comfort her.

 

As if he knows, Jon looks up.

 

His eyes meet hers from across the grass. They aren’t red, just that same, dark gray. Still, Sansa gasps, and yanks her curtain shut. 

 

When she opens it again, they’re gone. 

 

***

 

Werewolf.

 

How had Sansa not realized it before?

 

His heightened senses. His quick reflexes. All of the whispered arguments between her parents. It all fit the bill. Jon is a werewolf. The potion her mother had been brewing for him yesterday was wolfsbane.

 

To be fair, there weren’t many books on werewolves in her house, but there were plenty on potion brewing. The one her mother had been brewing for him yesterday was wolfsbane. All of the ingredients fit: aconite, eye of newt, mint, a bezoar. But what her mother failed to realize is that it had to be taken every day of the week.

 

So of course it hadn’t worked last night.

 

From what Sansa could glean, there was no way Jon would know that. Since he had just started maturing, this would have only been his second time turning, maybe even his first. 

 

Her heart hurt for him.

 

It is all she could think about while helping her mother cook breakfast. Jon is upstairs in bed, after the restless night he had endured. She would not blame him if he slept the day away. Every single bone in his body had broken, and realigned. And he had to go through that once a month for the rest of his life?

 

It wasn’t fair.

 

“You’re acting odd today.” Catelyn notes after watching her stumble into a drawer. She frowns, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead.     “Are you ill, darling?”

 

“No.” Sansa forces a smile. “Just tired.”

 

If her mother found out that Jon had been so close to killing her last night, she’d kick him out in an instant. And it wasn’t his fault that she decided to go nosing around. He _had_ told her to stay away.

 

“Perhaps you ought to go lie down for awhile, then.”

 

“But breakfast—”

 

“I can manage.” Catelyn says with a soft smile. “Go on.”

 

***

 

Sansa does go back to her room, but not to sleep. She is scared of what her dreams might hold.

 

Instead, she begins to write another letter to Jeyne. She still hadn’t gotten a response from the last one she sent, but if she didn’t tell someone about what happened she would explode. And Jeyne could always keep a secret.

 

So Sansa takes out a quill, some parchment, and ink, and she begins to write. 

 

**_Dear Jeyne, I am much too curious for my own good._ **

 

**_Dear Jeyne, remember that boy I told you about that was staying with me? I’ve found out why he’s so strange._ **

 

**_Dear Jeyne, I already know what you’re going to ask— no Jon is not cute, and he’s a werewolf besides. Too much baggage._ **

 

**_Dear Jeyne, my crush tried to eat me._ **

 

Sansa crumples the last bit of parchment, giving up, and buries it under her mattress, where no one could come across it. Without a clue on what to do next, she ventures downstairs, and outside, into the morning sun.

 

Arya and Robb are in the middle of a football game, so they don’t notice their sister walking past them, and into the forest, or if they do, they don’t say anything. The peaceful rustle of the leaves makes peace sink deep into her bones, as she makes her way towards the weirwood tree.

 

Sansa takes a seat beside the hot spring, tucking her legs underneath herself. The black pool is so still she can see her own reflection. Serene, and idle. There are dark circles underneath her eyes too. No wonder her mother told her to go rest. 

 

She hears the crunching of leaves behind her, and swivels.

 

It’s Jon, standing at the edge of the forest, looking a bit lost. All of that sleep hadn’t done him any good, because he still looked exhausted. And nervous. He’s cracking his knuckles neurotically, and worrying on his bottom lip.

 

“I can leave—if you want me to.”

 

Part of her did kind of want him to, but she forced herself to ignore that. Jon is still Jon. She pats the grass beside her. “You can sit—if you want.”

 

Sansa turns around, not waiting to see what he would do.

 

There’s a beat of quiet, and Jon does sit. Not directly beside her. There’s enough room between them for another person to sit. She’s grateful for that. She _hates_ that she’s grateful for that.

 

“You don’t have to worry.” Sansa says, realizing what he must have sought her out for. I’m not gonna tell anyone.”

 

Jon scowls. “That’s not what I came here for.”

 

She blushes. She hadn’t meant to offend him. She quickly amends her statement. “I’m just saying. Your secret is safe with me.”

 

His scowl disappears, features softening. He nods at her, and even if it wasn’t what he came for, Sansa can tell he’s grateful all the same. “Thanks.”

 

She smiles at him kindly, raising her hand to push the hair out of her face.

 

Jon catches it.

 

Not to hold it, like Sansa had foolishly thought at first, but to inspect it. He cups her elbow gently, much like he did yesterday. But unlike yesterday, his fingers are brushing a blotchy, purple bruise.

 

He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. “Do you see why I told you not to come back now?”

 

Sansa cannot speak. She’s too busy revelling in the shocks his fingertips give her. 

 

“I told you—” Jon cuts himself off, voice trembling. “I told you not to come back, Sansa.”

 

There was her name again. Sansa. Twice in 24 hours. That had to be some record. She ignores that, feeling a wave of shame wash over her. He had tried to protect her, but she ignored it. “I know. I didn’t do it on purpose. One minute I was asleep, and the next minute ...I was with you.”

 

He curses, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 

“It was an accident.” She murmurs, moving closer to him. She thinks she sees his eyes watering, and her stomach clenches. She takes his other hand. 

 

“It doesn’t matter.” Jon snaps harshly. But still, he doesn’t pull away. He runs his fingers over her bruise again. “I hurt you. And I could have done worse—”

 

“But you didn’t.” Sansa insists.

 

“I could have,” Jon repeats stubbornly. He wipes at his eyes angrily, his hand never leaving hers. “I’m a monster.”

 

“You are not.” She says firmly. 

 

“I am—”

 

“Not to me.”

 

And Sansa does the only thing she can do: she hugs him.

 

Hard. She wraps her hands around his neck, and she holds him like she’s never going to let go. He stills for a moment, but then he hugs her back, burying his face in hair. 

 

They stay like that, for awhile. It seems like forever. Sansa would not mind if that was the case. Forever in Jon’s arms didn’t seem so bad. 

 

But he pulls back, a little. Their foreheads are still touching slightly. He pushes a strand of red behind her ear.

 

She melts a little.

 

“You’re the last person I ever want to hurt.” He whispers. “I never—I wouldn’t—”

 

“I know.” Sansa says softly, because she does. Just as he knows when she’s lying. 

 

She leans forward, and she kisses him on the cheek. Softly. Lightning fast. Jon’s mouth parts a little, and a blush stains her cheeks, because she basically outted herself to him, but when she moves to pull back, he stops her from doing so, grabbing her arm.

 

He kisses the bruise on her elbow, featherlight. 

 

Sansa freezes. 

 

The tips of his own ears are red, but he nods at her, as if this was perfectly commonplace between two people who had just been mortal enemies 24 hours earlier. He stands up, brushing off his jeans, and walks away.

 

Stunned, Sansa presses the spot on her arm where he had kissed her. She swears that she can still feel his lips there, but when she looks at it, there’s nothing there.

 

Not even a bruise.

 

***

 

“ROBB RICKARD STARK!” Catelyn shouts shrilly from the bottom of the stairs.

 

“Oh Merlin, I’m here, I’m here!”

 

And he is, finally. Dragging his trunk filled with his school things down the stairs. Still, it does not appease her mother one bit.

 

“I told you to bring your trunk down last night.” She scolds at him, bouncing Rickon on her hip. 

 

Robb grimaces apologetically. “I fell asleep.”

 

“There’s no time for that.” Ned tells her, as she opens her mouth to rip him a new one. He waves at them. “Into the car. All of you.”

 

“Be safe.” Catelyn commands, and Ned leans down to kiss her. She grabs him by the collar and kisses him more deeply. Robb, Arya, and Bran make sounds of disgust, but Sansa just smiles.

 

They’re back to normal again.

 

Of course that probably had to do with the fact that Jon is leaving, and away from her children, and while she’s glad that her parents aren’t fighting anymore, she’s also sad that Jon has to leave.

 

Things had changed in the last couple of days. Her and Jon still weren’t close, but they were cordial. He didn’t glare at her anymore. He said her name more often (and stupidly, she would replay each time until he said it next) and he isn’t as stingy with his smile or laugh. And his laugh, Sansa had only known it for three days and it was quickly becoming her most favorite sound in the universe.

 

What’s more, is that two nights ago, while they were watching movies in the parlor, Sansa accidentally fell asleep, head falling on his shoulder, and he hadn’t moved her. Just let her snuggle into him. She wonders, if they just had a little more time, if she could get him to laugh with _her,_ and smile at _her,_ but they didn’t.

 

He would be leaving today, and Sansa would see him off. 

 

After Sansa, Arya, and Bran promise to follow their father’s instructions to the letter while they were at Kingscross, they all slide into the car the ministry had let Ned borrow. It is roomier than it looks on the outside, which is something that Catelyn observes with a surprised smile. 

 

“Muggles! They are truly geniuses, aren’t they?”

 

“Didn’t you add an enhancement charm to this one, Dad?” Robb asks, after he waves to Catelyn out of the window until she’s nothing but a speck. 

 

“Not as far as your mother knows.” Ned says gravely. “So don’t tell her.”

 

They all giggle, Sansa, one of the loudest to do so. She feels Jon looking at her, and turns to meet his eyes. He’s observing her, with another one of those very rare smiles on his face. It makes her own falter.

 

She would really miss that smile. 

 

Sansa reaches between them, searching for his hand, linking his pinkie with hers, and holding her breath.

 

He doesn’t pull away, just squeezes her gently.

 

They stay like that for the rest of the car ride, which feels like minutes. Catelyn had told them that in late morning traffic it would take them about 20 minutes to get to the station, but it feels ten. Before she knows it, Robb is sliding out of the car, and so is Jon, releasing her pinkie.

 

She feels cold all over. 

 

“Just rush right in and you’ll be in before you know it.” Ned reassures them in front of the pillar that served as the entrance to platform 9 and ¾. “Watch me and Bran, first, yeah?”

 

Jon and Robb nod eagerly, gripping onto their trolleys. 

 

They couldn’t _wait_ to leave her. 

 

With his hands on Bran’s shoulders, Ned takes a quick look around before disappearing into the pillar. Sansa had heard about it, but she had never seen it done before.

 

“You two will head in after us.” Robb tells them, suddenly looking stern as he wags his finger at them. “No funny business.”

 

“Well hurry up, so we can go then.” Arya says impatiently. “Before I burn the platform down out of boredom.”

 

It’s a joke, but Robb doesn’t take it as such. He gives Jon a look. “Ready?”

 

“Whenever you are, mate.” Jon assures him.

 

Robb runs into the platform, and so does Jon, right after him. They both disappear, and then it’s Sansa and Arya’s turn. 

 

Arya had wanted to take it at a run, like they did, but Sansa uses their father’s much more inconspicuous method, and takes it at walk, before leaning in, and disappearing into the pillar. 

 

It’s a different world. 

 

A sea of excited students, and anxious parents kissing their children goodbye. They’re all dressed in their muggle clothes, as it would have been a bit obvious that something was afoot with children running around the station in robes and pointy hats. 

 

They had come just right in the nick of time. 10:50. Ned, a giant among most of the other parents, was very easy to find. He has his hands on both Robb and Jon’s shoulders, giving them quick pep talks. They seemed to be vibrating with excitement. 

 

“Don’t get into too much trouble up there.” Sansa and Arya hear their father warn the boys, as they get closer. “Your mother will have your hide. And mine.”

 

“Yes, dad, I’ll be a good little boy.” Robb rolls his eyes, laughing.

 

“Take care of him.” Ned says this time, more to Jon. He winks. “I know you have your head on straight, at least.”

 

“I will.” Jon says, and smiles tentatively. Thanks for everything, Mr. Stark. Really.”

 

“How many times have I told you?” Ned says, leaning down to ruffle his hair. “Uncle Ned is just fine.”

 

Sansa doesn’t hear the rest of the conversation. She looks away, as it feels much too private, and it’s making her eyes sting. She fidgets with the zipper of her jacket until she hears her name being called, and sees Robb walking towards her. 

 

“You gonna help me with my trunk, or what?”

 

And Sansa does help him with his trunk, as Arya helps Jon with his. Ned wouldn’t be able to fit on the train with all those people inside.  Almost all of the compartments are full, but they get lucky with finding one at the very end that is deserted. After sliding both of the trunks n the overhead shelf, Robb dusts his hands off, and grins at her giddily. 

 

“You just can’t wait to leave me.” Sansa echoes her thoughts from earlier, but frames it as a joke with a forced smile. 

 

“Cmon, none of that.” Robb sighs, enveloping her in a hug. She squeezes him tightly, feeling tears leak out of her eyes. He pulls her back, and kisses them away. “I’ll be back before you know it, Poppet. Christmas time.”

 

“I wish I could come with you.” She sniffles. 

 

“Me too.” He says, and she knows he isn’t just saying it. “Next year. Only 365 more days.”

 

“Not for me!” Arya says scowling. Jon sets her down, as he had been hugging her. She marches over to them. I have two years to go.”

 

“And they’ll go by in a blink!” 

 

Arya and Robb continue to bicker fondly, and with a hole in her chest, Sansa steps toward Jon, whose face is blank. He has always been good at that, but he’s not as good at it now. She can read him better.

 

He’s scared.

 

“You’re nervous.” She says softly.

 

Jon bites his lip. “Is it really that obvious?”

 

Sansa smiles, but she feels it is about as watery as her eyes. “Not at all.”

 

He looks at her, then. Really looks at her. He steps forward.

 

She wonders if he’s going to kiss her again.  She really hopes he does.

 

He doesn’t.

 

“Sansa,” He says, helplessly, and pained.

 

Like any boy without sisters, he didn’t know how to deal with a crying girl like Robb.

 

“I’m fine.” She says, letting out a shaky laugh. “You’ll be fine too, Jon.” 

 

“I know.” Jon says.

 

And then he does the unexpected.

 

He wraps his arms around her. 

 

He smells like lemon and pine and snow, and everything _good,_ and Sansa lets out a gasp, before hugging him tightly, as if she could stick herself to him so he wouldn’t have to leave. 

 

“I’m gonna miss you.” He mutters in her ear.

 

“You don’t have to.” Sansa says, pulling back. “You could write. If you wanted to, I mean.”

 

Suddenly, Jon looks sad. But he wipes a tear away from her eye, and nods at her. “Yeah. I’ll write to you.”

 

Sansa’s heart soars.

 

Before she can stop herself, she kisses him on the cheek, as quick as she did the other day by the weirwood tree, and turns away. She does not look at him again, because she knows if she does, she will not leave. Instead, she tugs on one of Arya’s pig tails.

 

“The train is leaving in a few minutes, silly.” She says. “If we don’t leave soon, we’ll be stowaways.”

 

“I don’t see a problem with that!” Arya protests, but Robb kisses her on the nose, and sets her back down, pushing her towards the doorway. Sansa takes her arm, and they rush off the train in the sea of family members who were saying their last goodbyes.

 

When they’re beside their father again on the platform, Robb and Jon are waving at them from the windows. Only then can Sansa look at him again, but only for a few seconds. That sad look is still on her face, and she cannot take it.

 

When the train picks up speed, Arya takes Bran’s hands, and run alongside it, giggling and waving their goodbyes. Sansa is left with her father, and at last, she releases the rest of the tears she had been holding onto for so long. 

 

“He’ll be back for Christmas, love.” Ned says soothingly, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. 

 

Christmas. Robb would be back for Christmas. Maybe Jon would come, too. If she wrote to him, and asked. He said he would write to her, didn’t he?

 

A seedling of hope blossoms in her chest, and Sansa cherishes it.

 

***

 

She waits until at least the end of the first week to write it.

  


**_Dear Jon,_ **

 

 **_I said I would write so I am writing. I know you’ve only been gone for a week but_ ** ~~**_I miss you terribly. All of my dreams are nightmares since you’ve been gone_ ** **_._ ** **_You’re all I think about._ ** ~~ **_your absence is much felt._ **

 

 **_What is hogwarts like? Do you like it? What house did you get sorted into? You always seemed like a gryffindor for me, but I wouldn’t rule out slytherin, either. Whatever house you belong to,_ ** ~~**_I’ll like you either way_ ** ~~ **_they’re very lucky to have you. I know you’ll do great there. And keep Robb out of trouble for me._ **

 

~~**_All my love,_ ** **** ~~

**_Yours Truly,_ **

**_Sansa_ **

 

Satisfied, Sansa sets his letter, and begins to write Robb’s.

 

***

 

Robb’s reply to her letter comes shortly after she sends it off.

 

He has been sorted into Gryffindor. So had Jon, thankfully. They had double potions with the slytherins. Their defense against the dark arts teacher, Qhorin Halfhand was really cool. They had flying lessons next week. He missed her, and couldn’t wait until she came to Hogwarts too. He would see her for Christmas. All of his love, Robb.

 

No response from Jon.

 

She sends two more letters. One before Halloween, and another at the beginning of December. Neither of them gets a response either.

 

Christmas comes, and Robb comes home alone.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally!!! After almost a year lmao. If you liked it u can tell me about it on my tumblr @jeynesgreyjoy or on my Twitter @spideysansa. I even have a curious cat here https://curiouscat.me/jeynesgreyjoy Thanks for reading!!!

**Author's Note:**

> If this is something you'd like to see more of, comment below. Or come talk to me @jeynesgreyjoy on tumblr!


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